Tag: Gratitude

Posted in #Confessions, Aging, Gratitude

The Sadness of Getting Older

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

There’s a sadness to getting older. An underlying cloud of hazy gray covers the days and at night there is worry or maybe remorse at misspent opportunities.  Not every day is seen through this heaviness, of course, but there is a realization that hits, and I begin to know, really know that my days are numbered.

            Time is whizzing by at an alarming rate. I recall the birth of my children as if it were yesterday, yet my baby will be forty-six this year.  It is April and I feel as though I was just putting out my fall decorations and enjoying pumpkin spice coffee creamer.  Fourteen years ago, my first grandchild was born and soon he will be a sophomore in high school.  It all seems to go so fast now, and yet some things never change, like the need to be loved and accepted, the awe of watching a sunset, or the joy of warm chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. 

Sometimes I forget that I am older until I pass the mirror and look into the droopy eyes of someone I don’t recognize at first.  “Oh, hi love,” I say to myself. “I see you. It’s ok.  You’re doing ok.”  As reluctant as I am to share my self-talk, I appreciate the encouragement and realize that in most situations my own support and nurturing is much more important than the words of others. (A realization that has taken me years to learn.)

            I’m feeling sad lately at the adversities and misfortunes that are befalling my dearest friends.  All of us, if we live long enough, will pass through the valley of the shadow of death.  All of us will have hard times, and I have had my share of these seasons, but seeing my sweetest friends go through sorrow and suffering puts a heavy pit in my stomach.  I want to help. I want to change the inevitable outcome of diseases and grief.  I want to do anything other than accept the unacceptable.  But, as my Sittin’ Ugly Sistah Ginger says, sometimes all you can do is just show up.

            My dear friend of fifty years has Alzheimer’s.  It has been a slow dissent for her, but things are speeding up. I show up but it rarely seems enough.  I send prayers and good thoughts, but it hasn’t changed the course of this barreling freight train.  My tears have done nothing to soften the harsh reality for her children and yet the tears keep coming and somewhere in there is my own self-pity at being left behind, without my friend.  Aptly named the long goodbye, Alzheimer’s is a cruel and heartless disease that robs the very life from its victims and tortures the family and friends left to watch.

            That is part of the sadness of getting older.  We are either leaving behind or getting left behind.  It’s a constant hello and goodbye.  Things are ever changing and mostly when you least expect it.  Like our bodies, and their predictable, but often unwanted revisions. Our hair, skin, and nails become shapeshifters, morphing into entities that do not resemble their former selves.  Our limbs betray us, and our inner organs are like an old pair of tennis shoes, scuffed, tattered, and worn completely out.

            There is a nursing home with memory care near our neighborhood.  I used to find it humorous that its name was Autumn Leaves.  But it is no coincidence that many homes are named according to this time in life and what that brings.  Serene Meadows, Tranquil Oaks, Sunrise Senior Care all names meant to bring peace to this time in life.  A rose by any other name…

            When my dear friend Randy passed away two years ago, I became mute with sadness.  What I wanted to say to her children and sister, I somehow couldn’t.  I was overcome with this feeling of disbelief and such a deep sense of permanence.  If the unimaginable could happen to her, a vibrant, loving, generous spirit, what could become of us lesser beings? 

There is a sadness to getting older.  The time for do-overs has passed us by.  There will be no more children to try and get it right with.  Our best hope are the grandchildren who we can love with abandon and try not to interfere with their lives.

This year Boo and I bought a new car.  “We need to hurry and buy one before they all become electric.  I’m too old to learn about electric cars,” he said. 

“You know this will probably be your last car, babe,” he added.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we kept the last one for eight years.  Do the math.  Do you really see yourself car shopping at seventy-eight or seventy-nine?”

“I suppose you may be right, but I’d like to keep my options open, just in case.”

Last new car.  Last colonoscopy.  Last driver’s license. And I probably will not start a rock band or learn to snow ski.  However, even with the sadness of lasts, nevers, and goodbyes, there is an open opportunity for gratitude and appreciation that somehow makes everything more palatable, if I can let it. 

Gratitude for having one day at a time, so the sadness and frailties of life don’t overwhelm me.  Thankfulness for the health and wealth I do have, not what I wish I had.  And compassion for this old body who has served me well all these years.  Aging is not for the faint of heart.  It takes courage to walk through this life with all of its highs and lows, and even though there is sadness around every corner, I will choose to keep walking toward the light.

Posted in #Confessions, Whispers

Whisper #1 Stop Smoking

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I heard it years ago, that faint whisper of suggestion, “Stop smoking.”   I had never wanted to quit my closet smoking habit and never thought about it until the whisper.  If no one knew I smoked, did it really matter?  If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?  If I didn’t smoke in front of people, was I really a smoker?

            My husband (my accomplice) and I vowed never to smoke inside the house, so we relegated our habit to the garage and backyard deck.  He, of course, smoked when and wherever he pleased, but I hid, out of shame.  When my daughters were young they never saw me smoke. I pretended to be very self-righteous about my hidden vices.  In fact, my daughters still laugh, “Mom of course we knew you smoked!  We also knew you hid your cigarettes in the kitchen cabinet above the coffee pot.”

            “You did?”  I genuinely asked.  “How did you know?”

            “M o t h e r  please, we might have been young, but we knew you were being shady.”

All those years of slinking around trying to hide my habit, spraying cologne, and chewing gum were all for naught.

    When Boo and I decided we would not smoke in the new house, I was really ok with it.  We set up two chairs in the garage with a table and ashtray.  I was comfortable until I wasn’t.

   I became increasingly irritated by the garage surroundings:  dust, clutter, and bugs.  Once, while having an early morning puff out in the garage, a raccoon wandered in through the half-opened garage door and scared me half to death.  We had a stare-off while I debated how I could defend myself if he were to get closer.  Still in my bathrobe before work, I envisioned the raccoon attacking me and me being found hours later near death, in the garage.  I gradually reached over to put my cigarette out, and in my fear, I knocked over my last bit of coffee. “Sh!*”  I stood up, preparing to bolt toward the door into the house, when the raccoon slowly turned and sauntered out into the dawn.  He was probably bored with my commotion or more likely, repelled by the smoke.

            “Stop smoking.” whispered to me at surprising times.  I would be mid-drag, huddled in the garage on a cold night or a one-hundred-degree summer day, wiping the sweat from my face, and I would hear, “Stop smoking.”  And then, two life-changing events altered my universe:  my father passed away and my first grandchild was born.

            Nursing homes usually don’t have a smoking section for a reason.  In 2009, as my father’s heart disease was progressing, I noticed that very few eighty-five-year-olds still smoked.  And the ones who hadn’t stopped in time were battling oxygen masks and horrible rattling coughs.  Already I was lying on my doctor’s questionnaires where it asked, ‘Have you ever smoked?’  I was lying, sneaking, and in total denial.  My father’s life was ending, and I was still smoking, although it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide.

            I frequently drove to Amarillo to visit my dad in the nursing home, and when I did, I stayed in their senior living apartment with my stepmother.  Christine, God rest her soul, had a nose like a bloodhound so I had to be extremely cautious about covering up any smoke smell.  Plus, I was never alone, so I was definitely not smoking as much as I thought I wanted to. 

            “Stop Smoking.”

            I began to pray, “God, help me to stop smoking.”  I prayed for months, all the while continuing my secret habit, sucking on breath mints, and spraying Febreze on my clothing.

   Allen Carr wrote a book entitled “The Easy Way To Quit Smoking,” and in it, he refers to nicotine as The Green-eyed Monster.  This monster lies to you and tells you he is your best friend.  He makes you believe you are cool, social, and in control like you could quit any time you wanted, except the truth is that each time you smoke, you want to smoke more.  The Green-eyed Monster has his own whisper, “Just smoke one more.”

            The Green-eyed Monster says, “You’re so cool!” But, how often have you seen smokers hiding in back alleyways or standing alone on a corner?  Not cool.

            I read the book.  I prayed and I smoked until June 2009, two months before my father died.  I was traveling to visit my dad, maybe for the last time and I wanted to go without my ‘friend.’  I was exhausted by hiding and isolating myself from the scrutiny of the non-smokers.  I felt disgusted with myself.  I was ready to lay it down, yet I wanted to make sure I had a fresh pack and lighter handy.  I was balancing between two worlds.

            But, on June 13, 2009, in Amarillo, Texas, without fanfare or even a plan, I suddenly stopped smoking.  One day turned into another and another, all smoke-free.  I thought I would be shouting it from the rooftops, but as a closet smoker, I really didn’t have that many people to tell.  When I got home, back to Austin, I had to change my habits.  For a while, I couldn’t go out on the patio with Boo because it was so triggering, but eventually his smoking did not bother me.  I was not going back to The Green-eyed Monster.

August 22, two months later, my father passed away, and then on September 21, almost one month to the day,  my grandson was born.  I knew I never wanted to be a smoking granny, stopping to cough up a lung on the playground.  I wanted to be the fun grandma, able to participate in hikes, trips, and parties.  I never wanted him to smell smoke on me, only Jergens lotion or freshly baked cookies.  With his birth, I saw my future, and it was monster-free.

    Days turned into weeks and weeks into years until I realized I had been fourteen years as a non-smoker.  Fourteen years, the same age as my grandson.  My whisper probably saved my life; I know it has improved my life and brought me peace.   My whisper finally drowned out those empty promises from The Green-eyed Monster who skulked away like a wounded animal and will never come back.  Never.  

    Often in life, we do hear a whisper that is trying to tell us something important.  It’s our job to be quiet enough to listen, and perhaps heed a warning.  I like to think we can whisper back, and it will be heard.

    I am grateful, I whisper, I am so incredibly grateful.

Posted in Contemplations, Gratitude

I Need Something Sweet by Nancy Malcolm

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            There are days, we all have them, where it seems everyone and everything around us is sharp. Sharp tones or answers to our questions that feel snippy and harsh.    I call these tender days, a day when tears are close by and thoughts are deep.  On these days I feel alone in an alien world that thrives on being blunt or quick.  “I need something sweet, Lord,” I whisper in a quiet prayer.  “I need something sweet.”

            As I get older the tears fall more readily.  They often are on the brink, ready to fall and just as close is a smile open and ready to fill my face.  Maybe it’s because I realize I have less time to waste on foolishness, or hurtful people or things that don’t serve a loving purpose.  I appreciate more the answered prayers that are sent to me.  I feel the more I ask for sweetness in my life, the more is sent to me. 

            On one such tender day, two years ago, I was volunteering with my elderly Hospice patient.  She had wanted to go to the grocery store, just to look around.  I pushed her wheelchair up and down the aisles as she looked at make-up, smelled the candles, and marveled at the various types of crackers. We perused the Hallmark cards and bought some candy.  She just wanted to feel normal for a change and I wanted that for her too.  We had spent an hour wandering the aisles, when we got in line to check out.  The woman behind us kept staring and smiling at us and finally she said to me, “Is this your mother?”

            I smiled at my patient and said, “Oh, how I wish she was.  We’re just good friends.”

            The woman replied, “Well, you look beautiful enough to be mother and daughter.”

            And my patient said, “I wish we were.  She is the sweetest girl in the world to me.”

            I bent down to hug my little friend, and we both had tears in our eyes.  That was something sweet.

            I always find when I whisper my need for something sweet, God is waiting and willing to send it.  A smile from a stranger.  A love pat from my husband.  A phone call from my daughter.  A thank you from a friend.  There’s goodness on its way in many different forms if I am open to see it.

            My dear friend Mary, who has since passed away, always encouraged me in my photography.  She would call and ask if I wanted to walk the trails at the Wildflower Center, “Be sure to bring your camera,” she would say.  Then as we walked, she seemed happy for me as I found butterflies or dragonflies just begging to be photographed.  “Look over here!” she would say. “This butterfly is just waiting for you.”  She never failed to compliment me or brag to others about my talent.  She was something so precious that I can live on the memory of her sweetness for years to come.

            I feel the blessings when I encounter kind and generous souls inside my day.  The friendly cashier, gracious friends or a loving card in the mail.  I feel so lucky because my inner whisper, “I need something sweet,” seems to send my guardian angels into overdrive sending me all manner of beautiful expressions.  Even now as I sit at my desk, there is a gorgeous red cardinal outside my window especially for me to enjoy.

            I pray to be reminded that when I whisper, “I need something sweet,” there are others, too, who are whispering.  Perhaps it is within my power to be that source for someone else.  I want to be mindful of their whispers, too.  Take note of the whisper in your heart and the hearts of others. Ask God to let you hear the whisper and give you the courage to answer the call.

In loving memory of Eunice J.
Posted in Family

Auntie Sue aka The Skip-bo Queen of O.K. City

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            My little Auntie Sue always said she was going to give Eve a ‘talkin to’ when she got to Heaven.  Never a complainer, she did want to tell Eve how miserable life with menstrual cycles, menopause and adult diapers was.  She blamed Eve for all of this and wanted to give her the ‘what for.’  It’s been several years now since Auntie Sue got to Heaven so I’m sure by now they’ve had their talk.  Being a reasonable soul, I’ll bet Sue got it out of her system and all is forgiven.  She never was one to hold a grudge…for too long.  Unless you continuously interrupted her sittin’ ugly time or messed with her family, then she could positively be ninety pounds of bulldog fury.

Auntie Sue and my mother

            Every morning, at the crack of dawn, she would make her one and only cup of Sanka and sit down to read her Bible and her Alanon book.  This was her sittin’ ugly time.  Her quiet time to get her mind straight for the day.  And then she was off like a bolt of lightning, hitting the trail for her morning mile with her sporty red walker.  Down the hall, down the elevator, past the common room, across the solarium, outside, down the sidewalk and across to another part of the building then back up the elevator and down the hall to her apartment 215.  She would do this twice a day, adjusting for rain or snow, as Oklahoma City was prone to have.  “You have to walk or die,” she would say.  And I believe her.

Family Reunion Love

            My little Auntie was over-the-top with enthusiasm.  If I came for a visit, she would say it was the best visit ever!  Every rent car I drove from the airport was the best car ever. It was always better than the last one.  Every joke she heard, was the funniest thing ever told.  Every meal was the most delicious.  Every game of Skipbo was more fun than the last and everyone she met received a compliment.  She was genius at complimenting even the hardest shell.  She was thankful for every phone call, card, and hug.  She was generous with her money and always tithed to the church, even on a fixed income.  She was fiercely loyal to her family and loved her only child more than life itself.

Ysleta and her son, Chuck (me)

            If she was here and heard me going on and on…tooting her horn, she would argue that she was not perfect, she had faults.  Maybe she did, but I never saw them.  Her five-foot frame, ninety pounds soaking wet, shock of white, curly hair and easy smile was perfect to me.  Her true grit, determination and positive attitude was perfection.  Auntie Sue had it all and everyone wanted to be her friend, even her would-be foes.

  Like her issue with Eve, there are many things in life we don’t understand now. There are loved ones who leave us too soon, and some things we know in part but won’t know the true reason until we’re in the by and by.  That’s just the way it is.

            January 19th would have been Auntie Sue’s ninety-ninth birthday.  Those of us who knew her and loved her, still miss her every day.  She was a loyal and loving wife, mother, grandmother, aunt and friend and there will always and forever be only one, Ysleta Davis Lane aka Auntie Sue, the original Sittin’ Ugly Sistah!

Posted in Friendship

How to Say Goodbye

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

How to Say Goodbye

 

How to Say Goodbye  by Nancy Malcolm:

I am unsure of how to tell you goodbye.  I’m holding your hand as if you were holding mine back and my breathing has slowed to match yours.  I sit as close to you as possible, but I don’t know how to say goodbye.  My mind is searching for the right words, but my heart is whispering “don’t go”, “don’t leave me”.  I’m at a loss as to how to say goodbye.

Because my mother died when I was so young, I am both familiar with loss and petrified of it.  For years, I tried to avoid all funerals except when it was a family member or I sensed that I was expected to attend.  Even then, the fear and discomfort I suffered was overwhelming.  It brought a flashback of emotions from long ago as if it were a fresh cut.  I just didn’t know how to say goodbye or let go of a loved one.  It is too much to ask of anyone, really.

How ironic that now I am a hospice volunteer.  Ironic? Or is it divine providence?

When I retired, I wanted to volunteer in some way.  No matter what I researched or thought about, I always came back to hospice.  Even though the thought of it scared me, it also tugged at my heart and settled in.  There were trainings and workshops and the many other volunteers who bade me welcome, saying: “You’re embarking on a sacred journey, friend, a chance to walk with another soul toward peace.  It will change your life forever.”  And they were right.

In my 6 ½ years, I have grown and changed and calmed.  At first, my nerves restricted me.  I felt that old familiar uneasiness and gut-wrenching clinch when I would begin my shift, but by the end of my visit, I would be at peace.  As time went on, I felt my whole insides becoming rewired.

One of my favorite patients still lived at home, when I met him.  He was a widower and had round the clock care. The three of us;  my patient, his caretaker and I shared many a Tuesday afternoon; peacefully sitting on his patio.  If he was feeling good and weather permitted, he and I would stroll around the yard as he pointed out each plant by name. He loved to tell stories about him and his wife gardening together.  As time went on, we just sat on the patio, hand in hand and passed the time in silence, only interrupted by the buzzing of a bee.  Sometimes, he would look over at me and smile, and on more than one occasion, I heard him say, “I’m going to miss my garden.”  “I know”, I said. “I know.”

My hospice patients have become like family, as was the case with a very special woman who I had the pleasure of knowing for three years.  Once a week we would get together to visit.  She would always be sitting in her chair, knitting or crocheting an intricate project.  Over the years she taught me to knit as she also shared stories of her faith and family.  Her eyes would light up when I walked into her room and my heart would always be full when I left.  We had an unconditional love and respect for one another that comforts me still to this day.

I have been so blessed and fortunate to have spent time, space and breath with these beautiful souls.  I’ve learned a lot about life and a lot about dying with dignity and grace.

           -I’ve learned that how you live is most likely how you will die.

           -No matter who you are; soft, human touch comforts.  It tells you, without the need              for words, that you are not alone.

I have had spiritual awakenings and unexplainable happenings.  I have laughed, cried, loved and felt someone else’s fear.  For, after all, we are still ‘ourselves’, even ravaged by disease or weakened with age.  We live until we die, in fact, dying is the last act of living.

The beautiful souls I have known through hospice have healed my heart, even as it breaks for them.  I no longer am afraid.  I no longer resist saying goodbye, when it is time.  Because I know, that just as I am saying goodbye and they are gone from my sight;  there are other souls rejoicing, as they are welcomed home on the other side.

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Posted in Friendship

Soul Sister (a.k.a. Cousin Gina) by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

“Soul” Sister (a.k.a. Cousin Gina)

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Gina and I in Panama City, 1960

 

     We were walking along a Pensacola beach around 8 a.m., after coffee and before the rest of the folks got up. We aimed to walk to the distant pier and talked nonstop the whole way.  Like evenly-matched tennis players, we served and volleyed kid woes back and forth. “He sneaks out the house so often, we have to hide our car keys now.”  “Her grades have dropped ‘cause she skips all the time.” “His room reeks of pot.”  “I hear ya’!” 

     Somehow letting go of our tales of angst gives us a kind of inner release.  We offer the worry and fear up to the sun, the waves, the breeze, and we become free to laugh out loud. Gina and I totally “get” each other, and for two hours we feel better.  On the walk back to our beach-front rental, we even rush into the surf for a quick swim and more laughter as we jump and dive into the waves. Like a couple of kids!

     Gina is my first cousin and my “soul” sister.  Even though she lived an hour away from my hometown, we saw each other often growing-up.  We shared every Keller family reunion or big holiday party at Grandma’s house for sure.  Also, we had full weeks at a time during the summer when we visited each other’s homes or went to our Indian Village camp with Grandma and Stella.

     During the 1980’s we got married and raised our kids in different states.  We didn’t spend long visits together, yet later we grabbed summer getaways when we both became public school teachers. In 1998 and 2010 we even took trips to NYC to visit my sister Gayle and sightsee and reconnect.  Gina and I snap back together easily, no matter how long we have been apart.  We share our Cajun culture, our Keller connection, and our childhood memories, and our family tragedies. Gina is  a close cousin, a trusted friend, a wise woman, a spiritual guide, and my soul sister.  She has a wit like a whip, yet it’s made of purple yarn or silly string. Her sarcasm is swift, yet stingless.  And we share a deep, honest love of movies that began in 1968 when we were both enchanted by Funny Girl.  Walking from Grandma’s to the Saturday matinees at the Liberty and then returning to sneak cigarettes while Grandma napped were big teenage moments for me.  We also worked in the theater’s concession stand and played tennis, went swimming, and obsessed over cute boys to fill the lazy summer days with good times.

     Throughout the sad, sad times and the glory days, humor has helped hold us together.  Two years ago we shared a weekend in Galveston at her sister Dana’s beach house, and while attempting to take a selfie, Gina and I laughed so hard tears ran down our cheeks as we fought to keep the other bodily liquid from running down our legs!

     Now she and I even have similar living situations. My 89-year-old dad lives with me, and Gina lives with her 87-year-old mom (my dad’s sister). So Gina and I chat and commiserate and explain and laugh over phone calls.  We still “get” each other, and as we face family challenges, we share sorrows and successes and above all we laugh.  Gina is a devoted daughter, a mighty mother, and a strong Grandma GiGi.  Time with Gina is always honest and often hysterical. It can be gut-wrenching and still stay golden.  We connect easily, strongly, and soulfully.

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Gina, Gayle, me, Andrew, Yvette in Pensecola (2009)

Posted in Grandmother

Soul Food by Nancy Malcolm

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

sam

My husband cooks with love.  Just ask him and he will say it’s true.  He thinks about what he wants to prepare, shops carefully and then loving cooks each dish….Soul Food.  He says he learned to cook from his Granny because she too, cooked with love.

People often refer to cornbread, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese as soul food.  Food that comforts and soothes the soul; calming and healing as it goes down.  Soul food is premeditated, planned and prepared.  Quite often, soul food is as looked forward to as a gift..just waiting to be opened.

But for me, soul food comes in a different package.  It isn’t creamed or fried.  It isn’t baked or frosted.  It is ingested through other senses and may be as much of a nuance as it is tangible.

Sometimes my grandson will look up at me and smile and kiss my hand.  Soul Food.  His smile and tender touch feed my soul with a warmth and satisfaction unequaled by chocolate cake or sweet potatoes.

Every morning, I rise early and quietly have my ‘sittin ugly’ time.  I fix my coffee, find my glasses and gather my soul food…inspirational reading, pen and paper and a soft corner of the couch…all mine.  Prayers, meditation, and coffee?  Soul food, plain and simple.

Most days I take a walk in my neighborhood or a nearby park.  Blue skies, green grass, and bright-colored flowers all make up my soul food plate.  A scoop of sunshine, a dollop of beautiful trees and a pinch of fresh air…stir it all together and wa la..soul food.

Soul food, food for the soul is always tasty.  It has just the right amount of savory and sweet, for you see, sometimes soul food isn’t what you want…it’s what you need.  Like a friend listening to your heartache and helping you see the gift within your pain.  Or an answered prayer that was ‘no, not yet’, instead of yes, yet turned out to be best.

Whether you cook with love or just love the cook, your soul food is ready for you right on time.  Our creator makes it so, surprising us with a different menu…a variety of tasty morsels, every day.  Look forward to your next delicious bite!  Yum-Yum and hallelujah!